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Much to my disappointment, she doesn’t give me any more information and I’m forced to go back to my breakfast. The next mouthful includes an awful, chewy lump and inspires me to throw caution to the wind. “Do you know what will happen to me?”
Yvette carefully sits on the edge of the bed, arranging the blue woolen skirt of her dress. “I don’t, my lady. No one does. Nothing has been said publicly.”
“I see.” I want to ask if she has knowledge of what’s been said in private, but the glutinous mess in my bowl speaks volumes on the matter, as does the lack of a spoon. I may not be in the dungeon, but I am a prisoner, one who will most likely lose her head – literally. If I wasn’t so exhausted, I might pity myself.
After forcing myself to lick the rest of my breakfast from the bottom of the bowl, I fall back into a heavy slumber. When I wake later in the evening, there’s a tray on the floor next to the bed with my dinner. Instead of gruel, there’s a watery stew more fit for swine consumption than human. I consider not bothering with it since I don’t have much of an appetite. But ultimately, I decide that while there’s still a chance my life may not be forfeit, I’ll do what I can to come back from this nightmare. At least this time, I’m the only witness to the mortification of eating like a pig from a trough.
The next morning after some more of the gruel, I feel better in both body and mind. Yvette’s chatter about her eight-year-old son, Rionnon, buoys my spirits and distracts me from the low throb of my headache, and the persistent ache of my thigh, ribs, and ankle.
It’s not long, however, before our peace is breached, first by male voices on the stairs, then by the door to the room crashing open. Yvette stands from the bed, where she was attempting to braid my filthy hair.
“What is the meaning of this?” She looks down her nose at the four men, even though they’re all easily an entire head taller than she is. They’re dressed alike in the familiar vests, two of them with shirts underneath and two of them without, leaving their massive arms on display. My stomach falls as I recognize Noé.
“Wait in the hall, Yvette,” he demands.
“I won’t,” she fires back and Noé’s face twists with annoyance.
“Do as I say, woman.”
“You’re my brother, Noé, not my father, and I’ll have you use a civilized tone in this room.”
Noé is her brother?That saddens me. Yvette has been incredibly kind and I’d hoped we could be friends if I come through this.
The man beside Noé jerks his chin toward the hall and Yvette almost immediately inclines her head and whispers, “Yes, Deve.” She leaves, flashing me a look of sympathy from the door.
So this is my intended. Wishing I could have at least met him fully clothed, I pull the fur more securely over my chest and proceed to greedily take him in. Of the four men, he’s the tallest and the broadest, with a light brown beard and –
“Affix the chains,” he orders.
My heart stutters.Chains?
The other two men come forward, one to each side of the bed, dropping what are indeed chains onto the stone floor. They pull large hammers from their belts and do exactly what they were ordered, they affix chains to the thick wooden legs at the head of the bed. Each hammer blow jolts the entire structure and vibrates through my body, taking my headache from a dull throb to excruciating.
When they’re done, the deve orders them out, his cold voice echoing in the mostly empty room. I didn’t think anyone could be more imposing than Noé. Maybe under different circumstances, I’d find the strength of my betrothed’s jawline pleasing or the easy symmetry of his features handsome, but the emotionless expression he wears does nothing but scare me. And like always, fear presses iron into my spine.
He breaks into my thoughts with a loud declaration. “I have questions.”
I battle back the sneer that wants to surface on my lips. He may have questions, but the chains have told me that he believes he already knows their answers.
“How old are you?”
Surprise hits me first, then doubt. I thought I was the only one being kept in the dark. “Uh, I’m twenty-one. How old are you?”
His glare of superiority doesn’t falter as he ignores me. “What is your name?”
“You don’t know my name?”
“Answer me.” To my dismay, the harshness of those two words causes me to jump.
“Rina. My name is Rina.” And though I’ve heard his name from others, I return the question. “And you are?”
“Your full name.”
He has not a smidgeon of warmth toward me and I make a conscious effort to shore up my defenses to meet him head-on. “Amarinata Valentirnan D’heilar.” His lip curls at my southern pronunciation, snuffing out the last of my patience. “Do you have a name or am I to call you Deve?”
His eyes flash at my sarcasm, but he chooses to press on with his next question. “Who gave you the scars you wear on your ribs?”
A tremor of dismay rocks me. I should have been prepared for anything from this barbarian, but instead he’s gotten past my guard with only his third question. I want to rant and rage about the sanctity of my own body, about the –
